Of Bards and Witches
by Mikhail Shepard
Summary: Catherine is a mystery and Morrigan finds herself wanting to figure her out. Badly. The witch of the wilds is soon at odds with Leliana when they discover they're both after the same woman.
1. Ostagar

The air stank of rot. Even with the snow covering most of the bodies, aside from the ones they had just made, the smell seemed to permeate the air like an oppressive wave hellbent on singeing the very hair from their noses. The burned out remains of an once proud fort stared at them, surrounded them, familiar and alien at the same time. No bustling soldiers patrolled here any longer; only the dead and the darkspawn held vigil here.

The latter seemed far more numerous, if one was to judge by smell alone. Even the dead did not stink as the darkspawn taint did. It seeped into everything: soaking into clothing, dampening the air, blackening the very ground beneath their feet, sliding into their pores, a silent invader. The stench was not so easily rid of either, a mere bath would wash away the stains but the stench would remain, lodged like a splinter in the skin; only time would wash it away.

If not for the scented rags Leliana had helpfully provided before they arrived at Ostagar, Catherine was certain she would have wretched up her breakfast. The smell had found its way to her stomach, settling right on top of her breakfast, and the blood sausage seemed ready to gain its freedom again, crawling its way back up her throat at the worst times.

Chancing an unhindered breath, Catherine nudged the fur lined scarf around the lower half of her face down to her chin and inhaled; snowflakes caught in her nostrils, carrying with them a scent of charred meat. She tried not the shudder at the thought of just what(or _who_)could be burning.

"'Tis the king," a voice-sensual, impatient, seething with annoyance-interrupted her internal musing, giving the answer she would not admit to herself. "I daresay I expected such a royal man to smell better." Morrigan clicked her tongue beneath her scarf, golden eyes regarding the Warden beside her with a deadpan expression.

Catherine made an uncommunicative sound and shook her head; they were not having this discussion again. "Morrigan," she began dryly.

"Oh, save your bleating." The witch made an irritated gesture with her hands and rolled her eyes, effectively cutting off whatever comment Catherine had brewing. "I've enough sense to keep that to myself. It won't do if our _dear friend_," the words were laced with enough venom to make even Catherine flinch, "Alistair decided to fall on his sword. _Again_."

An argument hung on Catherine's tongue, one little wiggle away from spilling out. Unlike with her breakfast, which at this point seemed as though it were pressing against her esophagus, Catherine had gained better control of her mouth and promptly clamped it shut, preferring not to fight with the witch if it were at all possible. The flaming sword on her armor was all the reason Morrigan needed to start a fight and the ex-Templar thought better of inciting her ire by pointing out the obvious.

Offering an one shouldered shrug in return for the oral flaying, Catherine hosted _Starfang_ on her shoulder and cracked her head toward their camp. "I'm freezing my tits off." She didn't wait for a reply, knowing Morrigan would slink off to her own fire; far away enough for her to have privacy but within sight.

The witch tsked and swung her staff around to clear off the snow that had collected along the shaft from the fresh snowfall that had started the second their watch began. Whether or not their watch was up, Morrigan was done and she would be burrowing into her bear belt bed roll soon enough. As long as Alistair was still off mourning that fool king, Morrigan had no doubt she'd get some food in her belly before she went to bed. The Chantry wench was not half bad at cooking but the love sick look in her eyes when Catherine walked by was enough to set the witch's teeth on edge.

The Templar turned Grey Warden was not bad to look upon by any accounts, certainly. A wave of spun gold, just on the verge of being white, sat atop her head, lazy strands clinging to her neck and high cheek bones. What strands could be caught were braided and strung up in a lazy pony tail, hanging low on her skull, leather thong one move away from breaking free and releasing a curtain of gold to sweep across her shoulders. One green eye peered out from beneath thick gold bangs, the left obscured by a black leather patch that Morrigan had never seen Catherine without.

Even when she tended Catherine's wounds after the fall of Ostagar, Morrigan had not removed the patch. Curiosity had not dogged her then as it did now. A few scars peppered that area but nothing that could have accounted for the loss of an eye. Catherine did not seem vain enough to wear it simply for aesthetic reasons so whatever she was hiding behind that thin piece of leather must be rather hideous.

Hideous or no, Morrigan wanted to discover what the reserved woman was hiding. Aside from the patch and scars, her face was just shy of being beautiful. Her skin was light, telling of Orlesian ancestry somewhere in the line, but her accent and mannerisms was all Ferelden.

A light dusting of freckles danced across the bridge of a nose that seemed a tad too big for her face and while her smiles were usually small or crooked, her dusky pink lips and dimples made them for that. If one was especially funny, or exceptionally stupid, they would see a quick flash of white teeth before Catherine swallowed it back behind thin lips.

Morrigan noted all of these things but did not go staring at her like a moon stuck cow, not like Leliana. She did not sigh and gaze at the camp fire as if the flames would offer her help, she did not sing disgusting love songs in some fruity language that Catherine did not understand a word of or play with her lute, creating songs just for the Warden's ears. No, she simply watched, content to see Leliana flailing like the worm she was.

Catherine seemed largely ignorant to Leliana's intentions or perhaps she simply wasn't into women, but whatever the reason, the red haired wench was having no luck coaxing the woman into her tent.

_'Tis possible she doesn't like redheads_, Morrigan allowed herself to ponder for a split second before she realized she didn't care.

The camp, merely a cluster of tents near the center of Ostagar, seemed as dead as the king and Morrigan caught the scent of cooking meat. Refraining from asking if Cailan was still cooking on his pyre, she directed her attention toward the largest tent in the area, noting the smoke bellowing out of the flap in the roof. Leliana had not braved the cold to cook and Morrigan was not going to brave it to eat whatever the wench had prepared.

Shoving the flap aside, the temperature dropped for an instant as cold air rushed in, but the heat quickly won out and Morrigan shed her gloves and heavy cloak unceremoniously, approaching the blazing fire centered in the tent.

"'Tis done, wench?" Morrigan drawled, not looking back when she heard Catherine toss off her cloak in the same fashion she had and approach the fire. Catherine's teeth clamped down on the finger of her soaked gloves and she pried them from her fingers, setting _Starfang_ aside while she warmed her numb digits.

"Yes, Morrigan," Leliana said pleasantly, seemingly not perturbed in the least. Somehow that irritated Morrigan even more than outright hostility.

After a moment of hesitation, catching a spark of aggression radiating off both Leliana and Morrigan, Catherine reached forward and filled three bowls. Alistair and Sten would come in when they were done with the pyre and she knew her war hound would find his own food if need be.

Without looking at either woman, she handed over their bowls and sat down, setting her ice caked boots near the fire. Without the smell of rot clinging to her every breath, she was able to shovel in the food and have it set comfortable in her stomach. When it didn't seem like the stew was planning to escape along with the blood sausage, she filled another bowl and smiled brightly at Leliana.

The sight of Leliana flushing, her cheeks coloring under Catherine's look, sent a trail of disgust down Morrigan's spine. Resisting the urge to growl, she laid her bowl down before she flung the brown concoction at Leliana's flushed face and abruptly stood up.

Catherine's gaze met hers and she found herself tilting her head just slightly up when the Warden stood with her. Catherine was tall for a woman and Morrigan's eyes wandered to her lips, which she was just eye level with. Heat warmed her cheeks and she cursed under breath, turning away from the concerned green eye peering at her.

"I'll go check on that fool," she growled this time, angry at Leliana, angry at Alistair, but mostly angry at herself for blushing.

_I am not like that Chantry wench._

"You'll freeze," Catherine grunted, tossing her slightly warmed gloves at Morrigan before she could reach for her frozen ones. The gloves were bigger than her own but she tugged them on, feeling the leftover heat from Catherine's long fingers. The Templar dragged her cloak over too, setting it on Morrigan's shoulders before clipping it tightly to her with a brooch and she couldn't help but feel like Catherine was treating her like a child.

Catherine gently moved her hair away and pulled the hood up, smiling down at her, fingers sneaking into the black locks for a few finger brushes. "You've got snow in your hair." A light of amusement lit up in Catherine's eye. "It looks nice." Just as quickly as the touch had come, it was gone and Catherine was sitting back down next to Leliana, eye on her food.

Morrigan stole one last look at Leliana over Catherine's head as she stood at the flap to the tent; Morrigan's face burned with pleasure while Leliana's burned an angry red, blue eyes flashing dangerously. Golden eyes twinkled before she ducked out of the tent.

_Maybe she likes brunettes._

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_I wrote this a five in the morning because the idea just seized my mind XD PLEASE, review and tell me if I made any mistakes. I will write more if people like my story so far. The rating is M, for later XD Violence, language, sex. XD _


	2. Snow Vigil

Morrigan wasn't particularly fond of snow, even less so when it was never ending and stole into everything she possessed. Whatever enjoyment could have been acquired from watching the beautiful white flakes settle on the ground was lost as several flakes slithered into her boots and clothes, chilling her as they settled stubbornly against the small of her back and paralyzed her feet.

Remembering Leliana's nearly blistering red face in the tent, she grinned to herself, warmth flaring in her gut, and set a brisk pace toward where Alistair was no doubt still gawking at Cailan's charred body. Smoke bellowed up from the pyre, a wave of black in void of white, and Morrigan could practically smell the wolves stalking around the camp. She did not need to hear their howling to know they were hungry. Food was scarce and she couldn't imagine the beasts approved of Alistair's mourning.

_His royal ass would have feed a pack for a day at least._

Morrigan tsked at the elder Warden's foolish sentiments about the dead. Cailan was dead and burning the body would not make a difference. It wasn't worth the effort and denying predators an easy meal would only make them the only source for food. They would attack the rag tag group, if they were hungry enough.

Winter had stolen across the land savagely, blanketing every inch of Ferelden in suffocating waves of white that hindered their travels and no doubt caused trouble for the prowling creatures that now called Ostagar their home. Morrigan wished to be rid of this place but Alistair-and Catherine, she had to admit unwillingly-had vehemently suggested they reclaim what they could from Ostagar.

Catherine, upon an earlier scavenge, had discovered two swords of particular interest. After leaving Alistair with the king's body, the rest of the group had marched on, intent on clearing the frozen fortress of enemies before they set up camp and their persistence was rewarded. The blades were not so easily granted though, as it seemed they had been lodged in an ogre's chest by a man Catherine only referred to as Duncan. To complicate what would have been a simple retrieval, that ogre had been raised from the dead by a hellishly annoying little necromancer they had chased through half of Ostagar. If anything, this new challenge had made Catherine more eager to get the swords.

Morrigan had voiced her desire to simply allow herself and Leliana to take the creature out from a distance,far away from those crushing hands, but Catherine had shaken her head and gotten that stubborn glint in her eye. Morrigan had long since learned that look meant something was about to get bloody.

It had not be an overly tiring battle. Sten had charged the undead beast without hesitation, his face showing nothing but concentration, unnervingly silent as he swung that great sword of his as if it weighed nothing. The strange man _danced_ in battle. He did not thrash around like Alistair with the foolish shield of his, he did not smash bones and rip sinew with unrelenting force like Catherine did with _Starfang_. The damage he dealt out was savage but he only struck where he needed to. The goal was not to incapacitate like Alistair or cripple like Catherine-he meant only to kill his enemy as quickly and cleanly as possible.

The two warriors were a formidable team; Sten slashing the ogre's tendons until it could barely move, while Catherine launched herself at the darkspawn beast, journeying along the same path Duncan had across its chest to sink _Starfang_ into the ogre's head with a satisfying crunch. It was almost comical-in a grotesque way-to see Catherine using the darkspawn's eye socket as a handle on the way down, trying to stop herself from pitching forward and snapping her neck or bloodying her nose against her helmet.

While Catherine made her way back down to solid ground, the necromancer made to run while the Templar and Qunari warrior were distracted, but it didn't get far. Morrigan had been a second too slow to end the monster's life, allowing Leliana to earn a chance to send a single arrow flying. The bard even had the nerve to wink at Morrigan as the arrow found its mark right between the necromancer's beady little eyes.

After freeing her arm from the ogre's eye socket and removing her dented helmet, Catherine shouldered her great sword and regarded Leliana with a lazy half smile, dimples pressing deeply against her cheeks. Her lower lip has been gashed and Morrigan guessed Catherine's teeth has bitten into the soft flesh of her lip on the way down. The blonde woman didn't seem overly concerned about the flesh wound and neatly strolled up the ogre's body to wrench free the swords embedded in rotten flesh, taking care to wrap and bind them tightly so the naked steel would not accidentally cut anyone.

To Morrigan's knowledge, Catherine had simply taken the supposedly prized blades into the main tent and hidden them under her pack. What she planned to do with them was of no concern to the witch, but she had a feeling it involved Alistair.

The witch clicked her tongue in irritation at that thought and forced herself to speed up, hoping to rid herself Alistair as fast as she could. It was bloody cold and if that fool wanted to freeze to death, it was his prerogative.

The man had not moved an inch since she last saw him. His boots appeared to be sunk into the snow and his hair was soaked, dirty blonde strands clinging to an equally dirty face. Simultaneously battered with sweltering heat and blistering cold, he looked very much like a half drowned rat.

_Staring won't bring him back, fool._

With the heavy snowfall and howling wind beating them from every direction, she was surprised to see the flame still roaring, rending every scrap of flesh off the king's body. If the flush on Alistair's face was anything to go by, the heat was overwhelming but still he stood his vigil, face stony, eyes unseeing upon the king's corpse. His battered gauntlets had been tossed aside and his fingers were black-from cold or flames, Morrigan couldn't say-and blistered to the first knuckle.

Knowing Alistair, he had probably used his hands to keep the flames alive instead of his sword or even a stick to resurrect them. He wasn't a very smart man, Morrigan was wont to admit, but she thought better than digging at him while he was standing his vigil. The polite approach it was then.

"Alistair?" The use of his name, not fool or any other insult Morrigan saw fit to dub him as, ripped him from his thoughts and he blinked at her, confused. Almost as if he didn't know where he was or who she was.

"Morrigan." Realization dawned on his face and his lips thinned behind a tangled mass of blonde stubble. She had never seen someone age so fast. The hours spent beside his fallen king seemed to have sucked every last drop of life from him and left a withered old man in his place. Bags hung under bloodshot hazel eyes, from crying Morrigan summarized, and he possessed a gauntness that for a moment she thought him a corpse risen again.

"There is stew in the tent," Morrigan tried slowly. "'Tis no use to starve yourself." Gesturing back the way she had come with an impatient flick of her wrist, she tried to divert his attention back to the here and now. Dwelling on a dead man would do no good.

Alistair's eyes hardened and swiftly returned to the blackened bones laying on the pyre. "I have no hunger," he muttered, blackened fingers curling tightly into fists. "Leave me to mourn, witch."

"Witch? My, how original of you." Morrigan crossed her arms, staff resting at the bend of her elbow, and regarded him with amusement.

The Warden's shoulders twisted under her scrutiny. "What is it you want, Morrigan?" The deliberate snare of her name momentarily caused a flash of regret at wasting her time, but just as her legs started to turn away, intent to spirit her back to the warmth of the tent and the pleasure of Catherine's company, she steeled herself.

_Selfish little man. You won't rid of me so easily._

Gloved fingers dug into Alistair's shoulder, warm through two layers of cloth and steel, hard enough to make him flinch. "What I want is to be rid of this wretched place. What I want is to be warm and through with you. What I want is for you to stop acting like a _child!_" Morrigan had spit enough venom to mortally wound any lesser man, but she had never raised her voice. Now her voice bellowed out, echoing so loudly through Ostagar it seemed the battle was replaying. For a moment, Alistair thought he was going to die.

A shove sent him stumbling, then another and another, until he was on his ass and she towered over him, red from cold and fury. "What I want is for you to think! Cailan is _dead_, Alistair! No amount of mourning or crying," she jerked a hand toward the pyre, "or foolishly freezing yourself will bring him back!"

Her staff lie abandoned on the hard packed ground and her hood had been thrown back, locks escaping her neat bun and flying behind her, a crown as black as night spilling around her head. Her fists were inches from his face, pale and clenched, mana coursing through her veins so thickly Alistair felt heat coming from her fingertips. She looked every inch a warring goddess, hands nearly aflame, beautiful mouth twisted into a snarl that rivaled Catherine's warhound when his blood was up.

Her hand started downward, toward his face at an alarming speed and Alistair scrunched his eyes shut, teeth gnawing at the inside of his cheeks, hands frozen at his side.

A moment that stretched an eternity passed in darkness, the taste of blood on his tongue, belly clenching in preparation for pain. No slap came, no burning agony lit his body, and above the roar of blood in his ears, he heard a sigh.

"Take my hand, Alistair." The Warden's eyes shot open in surprise. "Don't gawk at it, take it!" Morrigan thrust her hand closer, palm up, and Alistair settled his larger hand into hers.

She steadied him until he found proper footing and regarded him with a critical eye. "Catherine can't do this on her own." Her voice was not harsh but still Alistair's face burned with shame. Morrigan released his hand and collected his gauntlets, throwing them unceremoniously at his chest. "There is stew in the tent, 'tis quite good."

Alistair understood. The leather gauntlets chafed his burned hands but he slid them on, readily bearing the pain to get some warmth back into his frostbitten fingers. He turned his gaze one last time to his king and turned on his heel, following Morrigan. The dead could hold no more of his time. He had said he goodbyes.

The walk back to the tent was silent, barring the crunch of snow underfoot and their breathing. Morrigan dusted her staff off and glanced back at the usually chatty man, equal parts relieved for silence and irked by it. Not even the wolves sang. It felt as if the storm had swallowed everything and left them alone in the world.

The tent was their lone haven in the storm, and soon they found themselves at the entrance, huddling into the shelter. Cold air rushed in with them, an unwanted intruder in their safe haven, almost lashing the fire into submission, but Morrigan was able to wrangle the flap closed before the flames were suffocated completely.

Sten and Catherine's warhound had rejoined the party while Morrigan had been out, and brought with them three dead rabbits that looked too small to feed a child, let alone a group of their size. Grif looked absolutely pleased with himself beside the fire, regardless of the size of his quarry; eyes bright, stumpy tail high and wagging, ears at attention, he looked as if he had brought a bronto down instead of three malnourished rabbits.

Grif rose gracefully, red kaddis standing against tawny fur, spiked collar gleaming wickedly in the firelight, monstrously large paws padding silently as he strutted toward the two new arrivals. The bloody remains of a hare sat in his maw and Morrigan had a feeling she knew where he was about to take it. The Mabari had an insane need to bring her _gifts,_ whether she wanted them or not. More oft than not, she found the half eaten, mutilated corpses of animals in her pack or laid out in front of her tent.

If she threw it away or gave it back to him, he treated it as a game and found more interesting places to stuff it and surprise her. After finding the rotting corpse of a squirrel in her bedroll, she surrendered and demanded he bring them directly to her. The spark in his eyes had vexed her to no end, but at least she could use the meat and bones if he brought the body in one piece.

On his feet, Grif stood at waist height on Morrigan and he nudged her hand until she accepted her bloody gift with a grimace. "'Tis quite...lovely." His big, brown eyes shined and he bounded away, taking his rightful place back at Catherine's feet near the fire.

She would add the mangled creature to the stew later. At that moment, however, she wanted nothing more than to shrug off the heavy woolen cloak Catherine had lent her and sit beside the fire to warm herself. Prying slender fingers from wet leather gloves, Morrigan thrust her hands toward the fire, shrugging the cloak off her shoulders and sitting opposite Catherine.

Sten set out from the tent with Grif to hunt(or play, Leliana suggested once while Sten was off, but Morrigan wasn't inclined to believe anything she said)and Alistair was eating noisily beside her, finding his hunger now that ghosts were no longer on his mind. Much to Morrigan's chagrin, Leliana was perched right by Catherine, strumming her lute and singing softly near the Warden's ear. They were close enough to kiss and one twitch from the blonde would see their lips mash together.

The closeness was intentional, and while Leliana's lips were singing for Catherine alone, blue eyes seeing nothing but the blonde woman beside her, the Warden's eye was elsewhere and her lips holding a smile for another. Through out the song, Morrigan could _feel_ the weight Catherine's gaze on her, skin burning in all the right ways under that mischievous green eye.

When the bard was finished, she stowed away her lute and retreated to her own tent with nary a kiss or word from Catherine aside from a mumbled thanks and compliment on the song. The Warden's mind was decidedly on something else. The forlorn look on Leliana's face as she left sent a stab of pity through Morrigan but it was quickly forgotten when Alistair too slunk off, sounding much happier now that he had eaten, and left her alone with Catherine.

Any thoughts about skinning the gift rabbit vanished when Catherine shifted across from her, laying on her side, face propped up by her hand, fingers curled lazily along her cheek. "Thank you." She had changed out her armor, the flaming sword that stood as a stark reminder of why Morrigan shouldn't be interested now out of sight and definitely out of mind. Instead, she donned leather breeches the color of blood that clung to her muscular thighs and calves like a second skin, a roughspun brown tunic under her black leather jerkin, and black leather boots she had looted from a bandit before they arrived.

Morrigan felt a burn start in her belly and decided she had never seen anything so wanton. "'Twas nothing, truly," she answered back, turning her mind to Alistair to cool the flames settling dangerously close to her loins.

Catherine smiled that lazy smile of hers and got to her feet, walking around the fire to stand beside Morrigan. Hand out, eye bright under blonde curls, Morrigan had no choice but to take her hand and let herself be helped up. "Thank you, nonetheless." Strong fingers slipped into raven locks and Morrigan lowered her head as Catherine pulled her disheveled hair into a sloppy bun, hands steady and careful not to tug.

The witch's eyes lolled closed and all too soon, Catherine's fingers left her hair, a messy bun the only evidence of their close contact. "Good night, Morrigan." Tucking a strand of rebellious hair behind her ear, finger lingering long enough on the pale expanse of her neck to send a shiver down Morrigan's spine, Catherine smiled down at her and turned toward the entrance.

"Good night, Catherine," Morrigan whispered to herself, tasting the Warden's name on her tongue and finding she hungered for much more than just her name. "Catherine," she tried, louder, and her heart jumped in her throat when she found herself again under that smiling green eye. A boldness seized her then and she stepped forward, taking hold of Catherine's forearm. "Come to my tent tonight." Her fingers skimmed over Catherine's skin, feeling rises on her flesh that could only be scars, and she tilted her head up, meeting Catherine's eye. "I have a gift for you."

So close, Morrigan could smell the mint on her breath. "Pray tell," Catherine murmured, eye traveling down to the witch's face, "what do you have for me"

"A simple gift." Morrigan leaned up, copying Leliana's earlier position and moving her lips next to Catherine's ear. "'Tis one you'll like, I've no doubt."

The Warden didn't speak for a moment and Morrigan feared she may have gone too far, but when Catherine's head turned and that smiling green eye met hers, she knew she had nothing to fear. The smile on Catherine's face, teeth showing and dimples pressing deep, told her all she needed. "We have third watch tonight." Her voice whispered across Morrigan's skin and she ached in an all too pleasant way. "I will see you then, Morrigan," Catherine whispered, voice dropping lower than Morrigan had ever heard.

"Until then, Warden," the witch whispered, sliding her fingers lazily over Catherine's forearm once more before releasing her. An odd platitude came to mind as she watched Catherine leave. "Sweet dreams," she called softly.

Halting at the tent flap for a moment, Catherine looked back at Morrigan and grinned roguishly. "I always dream of you." Then she was gone, swallowed by howling winds and raging snow. Morrigan didn't hear the howling for the blood pounding in her ears.

_And I always dream of you._

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Thank you Silvershadow090 and that unnamed guest for reviewing! Seeing your reviews made me want to write more XD


	3. Winter's Kiss

Sleep was not an easy thing to come by in their travels. The constant threat of bandits, and darkspawn and _worse_ was enough to keep Catherine awake at night. The taint spawned nightmares hindered her rest further, but she was no stranger to bad dreams. She would rather face a thousand darkspawn and the Archdemon in her dreams every night than dream of her life before. Before the darkspawn and Ostagar, before the taint coursed through her veins and her vows, before she had taken her final step from the Circle tower, her dreams had been haunted by something entirely worse.

She wished with everything in her that what she told Morrigan in the tent had been true. To dream of her golden eyes and pale skin and her voice, silky and sinful all at once, would be preferable to screaming darkspawn and endless battles. To dream of the witch would be _bliss_. She was not immune to the witch's charms, nor was she immune to the effects of Leliana's flirtation. Either woman was quite welcome in her dreams. She'd give anything to find a friendly, smiling face in her slumber for once.

_It's folly to wish things that will never be._

There was only one woman in Catherine's dreams, as it had been all her life, and she never smiled. Not anymore.

Grif had awakened her some odd hours ago after his watch with Sten was over and he had climbed in beside her, curling up along the curve of her calves. Sleep hadn't found her since. The remnants of her dream hung on her consciousness, half forgotten but still there, like a troublesome splinter. She vaguely recalled someone screaming and feeling something similar to pain lance into her eye. That feeling was all too real and she sat up, rubbing what remained of her left eye with a shudder.

Phantom pain, they called it at the Circle, but she knew it was more than that. It _ached_ like no wound had right to.

Donning her patch again with urgency, needing a barrier to protect herself and others from seeing what lie beneath, Catherine slid out of her bedroll, confident Grif would willingly keep her spot warm. The storm had died down some during the night, but it had snowed again-or maybe it had never stopped-and the air seemed to freeze in her throat.

Alistair would come soon, to rouse her for watch but she was up now, and she intended to meet him so she could wake Morrigan herself. Dressing in the dark, Grif's snorting presenting a comfortable background noise, she decided to forgo her usual armor and instead wear something altogether much warmer.

Catherine had not left the Circle a friend, but she was a Templar of the Order, and it wouldn't do if she froze to death like a peasant when winter came. The Order would see to that. Before she left, the Circle had bestowed on her several small daggers(gifts for Leliana after seeing her talent with them), a long sword which she had granted Alistair after he lost his at Ostagar, a pair of thick leather gloves, and dragonbone boots.

She was not foolish enough to think Greagoir had given such fine gifts easily. The man hated her, she had seen it in his eyes, and when they parted, both had innocent blood on their hands.

The blood on her hands had still been wet when she snatched her white satin cloak from the armoire in her quarters, a gift from Greagoir himself the day she took her vows, and strode out with Duncan at her side. Every eye, mage and Templar, had been on her that day and not for the first time in her life, all she saw was _hatred_ in the eyes of her sworn brothers and sisters.

"White and pure as the Maker's bride," Greagoir's rough voice filled her head and she felt the weight of his hands on her shoulders again, pulling her back to a time she cared not to remember. Too much had happened, too many scars had formed only to tear open again at the slightest provocation, and she had cost too many people their lives to take pleasure in remembrances of a time when she didn't have so much blood on her hands.

Much of what she remembered at the Circle had been muddled, by trauma more than time, and she was thankful. She remembered flashes clearly: a woman's voice repeating her name, softly at first then screaming it until Catherine's ears rang, someone holding her face, whispering that she would never see again. Then she remembered the pain.

It came on her, sudden as a storm, sucking the breath from her lungs and filling her with cold, icy spears digging into her eye until she jammed her palm harshly against her eyepatch, forcing herself to come back from remembered pain. She wasn't at the Circle, she remembered. She was at Ostagar, half naked and freezing, holding her satin cloak in her free hand, her right clawed against her patched eye.

Alistair had just freed himself from ghost, she would not doom the group by falling in his place. Lowering her clenched fingers when the pain in her eye dissipated into nothing, she set about donning fresh clothes. She settled the warm satin cloak over her hooded tunic and pulled on yesterday's leather breeches. The leather boots she had stolen from a bandit in the town over fit just right and stomped into them, lacing her trousers up quickly and efficiently.

The Warden shouldered _Starfang_, buckling the scabbard across her long back, and felt dragonbone hilt warming to her touch. Fondly, she caressed the naked blade for a moment, vibrant blue hues shining along the steel when it caught the predawn moonlight streaming weakly through the tent, and slid it home into the sheath, securing it within reach.

Catherine slid on her gloves, moving her fur trimmed cloak out of the way, and bent down to rummage in her pack, pulling free a tightly bound bundle wrapped in grey wool. Twin handles peeked out of the woolen confines and she held them tight, stepping over her sleeping warhound to shove aside the tent flap. Cold air filled her lungs, instant frostbite, and her teeth clamped down, desperately trying to keep in the warmth so ready to escape.

Cold wind pulled at her hood, insistent fingers of ice and snow slicing through to the bone, chilling her flesh and frosting her breath. "Maker's breath," she swore, kicking aside the fresh layer of snow that had formed at the mouth of her tent.

The Circle had always been warm. When winter came and the snow fell for days at a time, Catherine had been warm and nearly forgot about the damned season altogether. Patrol outside saw she never forgot winter's cold kiss completely. The Order cared not one whit about comfort when they designed their armor. Steel was meant to be intimidating, it was meant to make them faceless, anonymous and terrifying. It was not meant to be warm. A warm Templar was a content Templar, and mages, Greagoir said, could take advantage of that contentment.

Without layers of wool and fur, Catherine and her fellow brothers and sisters would have frozen solid come winter. The hollowing wind was hellish coming off the lake and she had seen an older recruit lose a finger to the frost her first year at the Circle.

She no longer remembered his name, nor recalled a single detail about his face, but she knew he had been there when she made her exodus from the Circle. He was her sworn brother, they shared meat and mead, stories and dreams, triumphs and failures, and he had raised steel against her. He lost much more than a finger for that and she recalled stepping over his body on her way out of the Circle.

It was fortunate she had been wearing armor; blood was easily cleaned from steel, not so with wool and silk. The dents and nicks made by her brothers and sisters' blades marred the once pristine steel and they refused her a new set even after Duncan requested better armor. Catherine could keep the cloak and other gifts, so long as she left before the night was done. New armor could take days and tempers were much too hot for that.

The gifts would keep her warm and the weapons would protect her person, but she would have to bear the weight of her armor, along with the scars and troublesome blood stains, by herself. The Order would not forget what she did, and neither would she. She was of the Order and now she spoke on behalf of the Grey Wardens. She could not be seen a beggar; they dressed her in silks and leather, and gifted her the finest blades available, but the armor was hers alone to bear. To strip her of everything would only beggar the Order in the eyes of the realm.

Shaking the memory from her head, not wanting to think on ghost, Catherine stomped a trail into the shin deep snow, cursing everything as she trudged on toward Alistair's post. He and Leliana had drawn second watch and she found them huddled together near their watch fire, both dressed in so much wool she almost mistook them for sheep.

Leliana saw her first and stood, bow drawn taut until Catherine removed her hood and smiled. The bard was quick to smile back and filled her unused arrow away, red hair glistening with melted snow and disheveled, windswept bangs clinging to her forehead. Alistair stood clumsily, a hulking mass of wool and steel, and regarded Catherine with a grin bordering on desperate.

"Thank the Maker," he breathed, frost clinging to the warmth that poured from his mouth with each word. Catherine resisted the urge to chuckle at his frozen state and instead addressed them both.

"Try and get some sleep," she told them. "We're going to head toward Redcliffe at sun up. We should get there within a fortnight, but if we press hard, we'll be holed up in Redcliffe castle in half that." Arl Eamon, if Alistair had spoken truly, sounded like an able man and one like to provide them with warm shelter and food from his own table.

Alistair looked hopeful at the mention of his name, and it was enough to push Catherine toward believing an ally was only a fortnight away. To hope against hope was all she could do.

Gripping her precious bundle tighter, she smiled and raised it toward Alistair, hoping it would lighten his heart. She knew he wanted to stay and recover Duncan's body, but that was impossible. He was gone. Darkspawn or carrion crows had destroyed every trace of him. The least she could do was deliver his fallen mentor's swords, even if she could not deliver the man's corpse.

"I've a gift for you." Alistair held the bundle at arms length and peered at her curiously. When she nodded encouragingly, he unwound the wool and something akin to a soft mewl spilled from his lips.

"Where did you…" Wet, hazel eyes searched green for a moment and Catherine was swallowed up by wool, steel pauldrons pressing hard into her unarmored shoulders.

Catherine smiled sadly and threw her arms equally tight around her new sworn brother, bumping her head against his gently. They were of a height, with less than an inch difference, but pressed against him she could see it now. Stubble, wild and wiry, rubbed against her cheek. "Maker's breath, shave," she jested, not unkindly, and pulled back a half step to clasp his shoulders tightly.

He smiled and tossed his head back to let out a whoop that shook his whole body. "If it weren't so bloody cold, I would." His eyes were still watery but no longer swam with doubt and guilt. He looked himself again, a little worn and older, but the warmth had returned to his eyes and for that, Catherine was happy.

Despite the obvious effects of her gift, Catherine's smile was bitter. "He died fighting, brother." Whatever end he found in Ostagar, Duncan had fought to the last second. "His death will not be in vain," she whispered solemnly, lips twisting downward. The darkspawn had surely killed him, but if Loghain had charged, the man might still draw breath.

Catherine had known Alistair long enough to know that he would not rest easy until Loghain's traitorous head was on a spike. She had half a mind to put it there herself, but she had not lost everything at Ostagar as Alistair had. She would not deny Alistair his vengeance.

The Wardens embraced again, tightly, and broke apart with smiles. "Get some rest, Alistair." Alistair nodded and held Duncan's swords tightly, trying to shield them as if they were irreplaceable. To him, they were, and Catherine could not fault him for wanting to keep something of his old life. "I even cleaned them, oiled them too. They were...messy." Weeks of being buried hilt deep in the rotting flesh of an ogre had left a peculiar smell that took several cleanings to get rid of, but the edge was still sharp as the day it was forged.

Even if the swords had been slick with darkspawn blood and smelled of rotting flesh, Alistair still would have be tempted to kiss her right then and there. That she had gone out of her way to clean them and wrap them up nicely made him want to squeeze her again. Instead he said, "Thank you," his voice didn't waver, but his eyes watered again, "sister."

The ghost of a smile graced her lips as Alistair walked away, holding his cherished swords like an overprotective father would an infant.

"He is a good man," Leliana spoke up for the first time, blue eyes missing nothing. Still, the bard seemed to blend into the background and Catherine remembered just what the redhead was capable of. "It's good he found a friend in you."

"He is my sworn brother," she replied automatically. The Templars had been her family once, but she would never find a friendly face among them at the Circle again. It was odd to her, that it hurt so little to realize she had left one family only to be welcomed into another. She had never belonged there, but she could find a place with the Wardens. They didn't care about anyone's past; all that mattered was a strong sword arm and commitment.

A quirky half smile washed over the redhead's lips at Catherine's answer. "So grim," she teased, lacing her arm with Catherine's, fingers resting on her elbow for a lingering moment. "The night is cold, dear Warden, and I have oils that will light you on fire."

Fingers, soft but twirling just so to whisper of promised pleasures, trailed up the Warden's bicep and a thoughtful expression took ahold of Leliana's features. She was the image of a shy maiden confessing; teeth tugging at her plump lower lip, nose wrinkled, rose coloring her cheeks.

"The nights are growing colder," Catherine agreed. Biting winds nipped at her tender ear lobes and she shivered, pausing to cast her hood back up. "I'll come by your tent on the morrow. Perhaps you could show me then?" It felt half a trap, but Catherine had full trust in Leliana. At worst, she suspected, Leliana would try her hand at seduction again.

Leliana was a beautiful woman. Light where Morrigan was dark, toned where Morrigan was lean, she struck a stark comparison to the witch, but both women were beautiful in their own ways. Leliana was _safe_. She was warm and smelled of summer and she looked at Catherine like she was the only person on Thedas sometimes. Catherine would find comfort in her arms and in her bed.

_Morrigan…_

An apostate, an atheist, a witch, everything Catherine had vowed to destroy all those years ago when she joined the Order. She was everything Catherine should _hate_, but she was everything she _wanted_.

_Morrigan is waiting._

Eyes blue as sapphires looked hopefully up at her. "We could go to my tent right now, if you wish. It would only take a moment." Leliana's teeth worried on her lip for a moment and her fingers grew bold, sliding along Catherine's muscular bicep to grasp an errant strand of white-blonde hair.

Leliana's hand was captured gently, but firmly, in Catherine's before she could go further. Her hands were small, Catherine realized, curling her longer fingers around Leliana's careful. "Morrigan is waiting for me. I will come to your tent on the morrow." Her voice was soft but Leliana looked as if she had been struck for a moment.

The bard nodded absently and withdrew her hands, fingers curling together tightly against her stomach. "Of course. On the morrow." She took a step back and forced a smile. "Promise you'll come? I won't let you out of it now, I'm afraid." There was a teasing undercut to her words, but her eyes were begging.

"My promises are dangerous things, Leliana," Catherine whispered. "More oft than not, people I make promises to end up dead."

_By my hand. _

Leliana smiled again and this time it reached her eyes. "I think I can handle it." She looked confident and Catherine smiled weakly.

"I promise." Her throat closed around the words for a half second but she forced them out. "Get some rest, please." They would be getting up in a few hours again and setting a hard pace toward Redcliffe. Leliana sent a smile her way that rivaled the sun and made her leave, snow and wind swallowing up the bard as she retreated to her own tent.

"Charming." Catherine didn't jump but her flesh burned when Morrigan came into view from around one of the pillars nearby, staff free and pointed casually in the direction Leliana had just disappeared in.

"You've been there a while." There was no question about that. Morrigan was seething.

"Long enough to see that little bonding moment with Alistair and Leliana's pitiful attempt at bedding you. 'Tis amusing, but I find my patience running thin for that red haired wench and her pathetic moaning." Morrigan stalked toward her like a hungry wolf and Catherine swallowed. "'Twas I? I would grab what I wanted and take it." Morrigan pressed close and her lips curled into a smile that cut Catherine to the bone.

Her heart beat a steady staccato within her breast and heat slid down her spine despite the creeping chill. "And what does the Witch of the Wilds want?"

Golden eyes flickered to Catherine's lips then back to met her eye. Morrigan drew back and settled down near the fire, warming her hands without looking up at Catherine. "Tell me about your family," she said, dodging the question but Catherine had a feeling she knew the answer. "'Tis bonding time, yes?"

The question startled her but she sat down beside Morrigan, freeing _Starfang_ from its sheath and laid the naked blade across her lap, fingers flexing along the hilt to keep it within reach. Settling into position, she pressed her back against Morrigan's and leaned against her. This position made certain they had full view of the area and ensured neither of them would sleep, for long or comfortably at least.

The Templars had not asked about her family, her blood family, and she hadn't spoken of them in years. Some things, she decided, were better left unsaid. Regardless, Morrigan had asked her a question and she would answer. "I grew up near Highever. I only saw the castle once," she told her quickly, feeling Morrigan shift behind her. "We didn't starve, but after a while fish gets boring. Better than hunger pains, I suppose.

"My father, he knew the Teyrn. They met during the war, a peasant farmer and a noble lord side by side against the Orlesian horde." Catherine could never top her father's rendition, she simply didn't have a flair for the dramatic, but she would get the tale out all the same. "My father saved the Teyrn's life and near lost his leg too, but the lord rewarded him well. He carved him out a piece of land by the sea and set him to work when peace came."

Whether it was guilt or friendship that drove his actions, the Teyrn always paid double for any fish they sold and went out of his way to seek her father. To reminisce or talk of the future, she didn't know, but she only remembered the Teyrn as a slight man with a big laugh and warm eyes.

"After the war, my father staked out his new land and brought his bride with him. My parents also met during the war, but on opposing sides. My mother was an Orlesian loyalist to the core and even played a part in capturing my father half way through the campaign." Her mother never enjoyed discussing that time, but her father had been more than willing to tell about his capture at the hands of an alarmingly attractive Orlesian woman with white hair and eyes the color of summer grass. "He got away without a scratch though, and he swore to the Maker it was because my mother fell for him the moment she saw his big brown Ferelden eyes."

They had quarreled often. The war was a sore spot for her mother and for a long time, Catherine had been afraid to even ask about Orlais. Her gentle mother, always smiling and happy, turned bitter and dark when her country was mentioned, even in passing. Seeing the horrors her countrymen had committed during the war had left little love for Orlais in her heart.

"I asked her to teach me Orlesian when I was a few years old but she refused." Catherine shifted to snatch up the wineskin Alistair had left near the fire and drank deeply, the mulled wine biting hotly on the way down to her stomach. "She never spoke a word of it. It was like if she did, she'd be invading the country again. I hated seeing her like that." Passing the wineskin to Morrigan, she smiled mirthlessly. "Hearing Leliana...it makes me think of her. I'd ask her to teach me but I think she'd have to stop singing bawdy songs at me."

Morrigan's brow rose and Catherine tried not to laugh. "My father taught me some, behind her back. He was a good man, but he was also a childish man and the first things he taught me were all the bad words."

The wine was warm on her tongue but Morrigan could sense something bitter underneath the spices. "Your parents," she tried, wine numbing her tongue, "are they dead?"

An ache settled in the pit of her gut and she took the wineskin back from Morrigan to take a much needed drink. "When I was eight," she answered, wiping her wet lips with the back of her hand, "our house burnt down and they were still inside when it collapsed." Old habits were hard to be rid of and Catherine found herself saying, "They are at the Maker's side now. Together."

Morrigan leaned her head back and listened, feeling the dull throb of Catherine's heart through her palm as she rested her hand atop the Warden's beside the fire. It was meant as a comforting gesture, one learned rather than known, and it came off as awkward, but Catherine smiled nonetheless.

"My father got me a bitch, black as sin with a temper to match, on my fourth name day and she pulled me from the flames. She was the runt of her litter, oversized head and all, so my father got a good deal for her. I raised her and she outlived all her brothers and sisters." Catherine remembered when her father had pulled the mewling runt from his pack and given it to her. She hadn't thought much of the pup in the beginning, her father warned her the pup might die anyway, as many runts did, but watching the pup grow to half the size of a bull changed her opinion.

Morrigan didn't miss a beat. "The bitch, she whelped Grif?"

Catherine stilled her hand along the hilt of her sword and took another long drink from the wineskin. Her head was spinning but the wine helped her settle down. "Grif is not mine." The Warden could feel Morrigan's fingers curiously curling around hers and leaned her chin down against her chest.

"When Duncan conscripted me, he was not alone. He had gone to Highever before and sought out the Teyren, seeking new recruits. He got his wish, though not as he planned. He left Highever with the Teyren's daughter, Kira. She was wounded, but the Wardens took all sorts, even cripples, so long as they could swing a sword."

Lady Cousland had been savaged, in truth. She had taken a glancing blow from a mace and even the helmet had not saved her from the damage. Her temple had been bashed in and half her vision went when her pretty face was smashed asunder. Even her sword arm abandoned her. "An infection started eating at her arm and Duncan thought to find help in the Circle. There was nought they could do and the Circle was not a welcoming place for me so we were forced to shove off, quickly."

The noble woman had smelled of rot the entire journey but as she lost strength and the infection grew stronger, so too did her hatred for Arl Howe. The man's name had been a hiss on her lips and even after they axed her arm off in hope of stopping the infection, she had not screamed for family or friends. She had screamed for his head and cursed every Howe, living and dead.

"Grif was her pup and near chewed my arm off the first time I touched his mistress. Duncan had to tie him up when we amputated her arm for fear that he would attack us." Grif had been in a lather by the time it was done and growled if either so much as looked at Kira afterwards, but when the stench from her wound grew worse he allowed them over. Little could be done for the woman by then but Catherine made her a promise and granted her mercy before they reached Ostagar.

"Cut off that bastard's head, she said," Catherine mumbled. "Made me swear by my honor that I'd do him in if it cost me my life. I've made plenty of vows in my life and I haven't been able to keep most of them. Not for lack of trying, but my promises are deadly things and sure enough, Kira died just like everyone else."

_By my hand as surely as that mace-wielding bastard that broke her face and Arl Howe for giving the order._

"I was supposed to give a letter to her brother, Fergus, but I never reached him. He was off scouting by the time I got to Ostagar." She still had the letters tucked safely in her pack and she would deliver them, if Fergus yet lived. Kira had not been able to write without her sword arm, but the Order had taught Catherine her sums and letters so she was able to scribe for her. Kira had signed her name at the end sloppily, right hand quivering with each letter, and requested Fergus take Arl Howe's head and mount it up in Highever after Catherine delivered it to him.

Halfway to Ostagar, the wound started festering and no amount of cutting away or applying salves would stop it. Her bicep and shoulder were black with rot and Kira had tugged her close, surprisingly strong despite being hours from death and asked her one last thing. "Kill me, quick and clean," Catherine whispered, echoing her just loud enough for Morrigan to hear. "Take care of Grif, please. He's smart, smarter than a dog has right to be and he'll love you, sure as he loved me."

Duncan had done everything he could to numb the pain but she still cried out, once, sharp and short, when Catherine plunged the dagger into her chest and twisted. Grif had nearly bitten her hand off afterwards when he smelled his mistress's blood on her.

"We buried Lady Cousland with her sword and shield after. Grif sat beside his mistress's gave for hours, howling. He wouldn't eat anything and he bit me when I came close." His teeth had left their mark on her hand and forearm but she hadn't given up on him.

Her own mabari had been stripped from her by the Order the day they found her sitting beside the burnt remains of her home, but she had kept tabs on her throughout her time at the Circle. She had lived to whelp seven strong pups and died warm and content in her new master's home with her pups around her.

Teeth and claw had not stopped her and finally exhaustion took the proud warhound. He took the food offered to him and allowed Catherine to touch him. She made him a promise too and she had a feeling he understood her when she swore to get revenge for his mistress. His brown eyes had cleared and from that point on, he looked at her differently. He lingered at the grave for hours more but their journey continued toward Ostagar and he went with them, trailing after Catherine and promised vengeance.

"We met stragglers on the way to Ostagar and Grif ripped into them like they were Arl Howe's men." Duncan had barely raised his blade when Grif, over a hundred pounds of rippling muscle, slammed into the nearest darkspawn and tore its hand clean off.

The taint could spread even to animals and Grif had been unlucky enough to ingest some while fighting, but Ostagar had been within sight and Duncan told her of a flower for just such sickness. She had searched high and low for the flower in the Wilds to repay Grif for his actions.

After Ostagar had fallen, she had been distraught and thought him dead. He, at least, could survive her promises and met her just outside of Lothering, looking hale and hearty.

"Forgive me," Catherine whispered, clearing her throat and finding it bone dry. The wine had hit her belly and she felt warm but a dark bitterness settled in her gut alongside the mulled wine. "That was a long way of saying my parents are dead." Catherine passed the wine back to Morrigan and leaned her head back against the witch's shoulder, eye closing. "I also drank most of the wine. I'm not being a very good friend right now."

Her stomach flipped in her gut but she blamed the wine and kept her head still when Morrigan turned hers. "You're drunk," the witch said, equal parts exasperated and relieved by the sounds of it.

"A tiny bit," she admitted. In the morning, she would feel foolish. They were on watch and missing the enemy would mean death for them and their sleeping comrades, but thinking on her parents had set her in a black mood and only wine helped when she got like that. "You're going to ask me embarrassing questions now, aren't you?" She'd answer them in her state, no matter what it was. The other recruits at the Circle had done the same but she had someone to keep her in check then. It was just Morrigan with her and she wasn't feeling particularly nervous. "Do try to keep it to a minimum. I want you to have some respect for me."

Morrigan laughed softly and slid the wineskin up to her own lips, tasting Catherine over the spices. "'Tis possible I'll just leave you be." The witch wouldn't waste such an opportunity but she could give Catherine the illusion of mercy before she dug in. "I have a wonder," she began, taking another sip, "do you have a taste women or are you allowing that wench to flail for enjoyment?"

Catherine made an uncommunicative sound in the back of her throat. "Maker, I thought you'd start off light." She pushed up a little, keeping Morrigan's fingers between her own, and smiled. "First Leliana and now you. You're giving me ideas about what you two wish of me. If you must know...yes. I have a taste for women, as you said." Catherine knew what was coming next and her gut clenched.

"Have you ever…?"

"You sound like Alistair," she grunted, hoping the dig would distract her from the question. She wasn't so drunk yet, to forget herself completely. When that tactic failed, Catherine sighed and closed her eyes. "_Once_," she breathed. Guilt saturated the word and Catherine wondered if it was for the broken vow or her failure to protect the woman from the backlash that caused so much pain. "Once there was a woman whom made me forget my vows."

Another question bubbled up but Catherine interrupted her. "Why did you come here so early? I said I'd met you at your tent."

Morrigan chewed her lip for a moment and tilted her head back, trying to catch up to Catherine's drunkenness. "I could not sleep. 'Tis the wind." It howled constantly but that was the least of Morrigan's problems. "Strange dreams as well."

The Warden laughed weakly. "Maker, you too? The taint has little gifts...nightmares, if it doesn't kill you right out. Infertility and a shortened lifespan too." The witch's fingers stilled against hers. "You never answered my question earlier."

Her palms were sweaty. Wet leather clung to her fingers and she freed her hand from Morrigan's long enough to slip her gloves off. Laying her hand on top of Morrigan's, fingers sliding through the spaces between, she tried not to think about how sweaty her fingers were compared to the witch's. Morrigan was so warm and close, and the night was cold. Her belly was hot and her mind muddled, but she wanted to know the answer. She wouldn't forget it in the morning. "What does the Witch of the Wilds want?" Catherine repeated, twisting her head to look at Morrigan's face.

Catherine's head was still pillowed against Morrigan's shoulder and for a moment, they shared the same air. Morrigan's breath smelled of wine and her fingers grew hot along Catherine's. "Tell me," she requested, thumb making a gentle trail along her knuckles, trying to coax it out of her.

"_You_," the witch breathed back at her. The taste of wine was on her lips then and Catherine closed her eyes, smiling into the kiss. The angle was awkward but they made the most of it, shifting until they were both on their knees facing each other, hands tangling in hair and whispering across exposed skin. Pain bloomed along her lips and the taste of Morrigan and wine and blood filled her mouth.

Morrigan's lips were hot and constantly moving; dancing across her lips, then sliding along her cheek, ducking over to her ear and sucking just right on her tender lobe, until Catherine couldn't breathe. Someone moaned, whether it was Morrigan or herself she didn't know, but when she opened her eyes again, her hands were digging into the witch's hips and Morrigan's were clinging to her shoulders.

Her lips ached and Morrigan had a conflicted look on her face, but the wine had numbed her mind to questions of right and wrong. Catherine ducked her head for another kiss but Morrigan moved away suddenly, covering her mouth with one hand and holding Catherine back with the other.

"You damned drunken fool," Morrigan whispered so softly Catherine strained to hear her. Quickly, she moved to cup Morrigan's cheeks; to kiss her, to tell her it didn't matter, to say that she was not so drunk yet and she wouldn't regret it in the morning, but the moment passed and Morrigan shifted further away. "I have something for you," she said breathily, cheeks stained crimson from wine or embarrassment. She was still rearing away as if Catherine were an ogre but she seemed determined. "'Tis the gift I spoke of."

The Warden had nearly forgotten. The wine had settled in her belly and forced everything from her mind but Morrigan. Catherine leaned back, giving Morrigan the space she wanted, and held a hand up to her bloody lip, wondering if Morrigan had bitten too hard or if her wound had simply split open again. Tongue heavy, Catherine regarded her mutely, afraid if she spoke, the witch's taste would disappear from her mouth.

"Hold out your hand," Morrigan requested softly, lips thinning as she reached into her pocket and placed something small and circular in Catherine's palm. It was rough to the touch and warm. She held it close to the flame and heard Morrigan swallow. "'Tis only a small gift, but I prefer if you don't burn it."

Holding the rosewood ring Morrigan had just placed in her palm carefully, she turned it over in her hand to take in the details. "Did you make this?" Catherine had never owned a piece of jewelry in her life. The Order didn't encourage people to personalize their armor in anyway, so they may withhold the image of anonymity, and before that she had simply been too young and far too poor for such things.

The fire light reflected off the grain and Catherine caught sight of several animals carved into it, constantly changing and morphing depending on how she moved the ring. There was magic in this ring, she could feel it. Whatever reason Morrigan had for giving her a ring, a magic ring at that, had to be a good one.

"'Twas my mother's." Morrigan's arms crossed tightly over her chest, looking at the flames instead of Catherine. "A gift for me, but I've no need of it. I wish to be rid of it." Golden eyes stole a look at Catherine's face. "It suits you."

It was curious but Catherine had learned to accept gifts as they came. Tomorrow, in the light of day, she would remember she had a bounty on her head large enough to rebuild Lothering a thousand times and twice the size of the first. Tomorrow, she could remember she was an oath breaker, but at that moment, surrounded by a howling winds and snow, all she could think about was the woman beside her.

"Thank you, Morrigan." Her fingers were bigger than Morrigan's but with some coaxing, it slid home and she held it up for the witch to see, lazy smile in place.

The witch's face was not nearly as happy. "'Tis yours now," she whispered softly and for a second, Catherine thought she saw something close to guilt well up in her eyes. Before she could say anything else, Morrigan turned away and drained the rest of the wine in one gulp, settling back into her watch position. Catherine was tempted to touch her but one look at Morrigan's tense shoulders told her the touch would not be welcome.

Catherine grabbed _Starfang _from the ground and sighed under her hood, sliding back into her correct position, back to back with Morrigan. Close enough to touch, to smell her, to feel the heat coming from her body, but she never touched her.

The pain in her lips returned and she swallowed back the taste of wine and Morrigan, icy and strong and sweeter than anything Catherine had ever tasted.

_She tastes like winter._

* * *

Finals are over! Updates should be coming faster now. Thanks for the support and thank you Pardison for reviewing on the second chapter! Hope you like the new cover art too!


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